The Final Solution
by ItsMeFray
Summary: What really happened after The Lying Detective? John wakes up in a hospital bed, reflecting on the past day. He remembers Euros and her cruel trials for him, Mycroft, and Sherlock. But what really happened? Sherlock has been a wreck. John has been in a coma for two days after being shot by Euros. Find out how Sherlock and John discover the true meanings of The Final Problem.
1. Chapter 1

The Finle Solution

Chapter One

 **POV: John**

Beep. Beep. Beep. Faint sounds of mechanical humming creep into my ears as I open my eyes. The room is completely silent except for the machine that I seem to be connected to. Looking down at my body, I quickly notice that I am draped in wires and am dressed only in a hospital gown. When I look around the room, I find that I am in a rather large emergency care room. A smell of flowers mixed with the classical disgusting hospital smell seeps into my nostrils, sending a shiver down my spine. My entire body feels numb except for the throbbing pain present inside of my head.I try to sit up in the bed and instantly regret the decision because my moment set off some sort of alarm. Pain shoots through my body, and I slam my body back into the stiff bed, returning to my previous state. I'm utterly useless!

Moments later, a young lady comes sprinting through the dark wooden door. She is yell at the other two people that followed her into the room, but I can't hear a single word she is saying. I can feel my eyelids becoming heavier as the nurse frantically tries to get a response out of me. She follows basic protocol and squeezes my hand, wanting me to return the gesture. She icy hand holds mine, waiting for a sign. My brain tells my hand to tighten on the woman's, but my hand does not comply. Instead, my body remains in a dormant state. As hard as I try, I can't to her speak. I can't move either. I want to ask her what happened. Why am I here? I must be in worse condition than I thought if I have my own room in emergency care. The nurse is clicking buttons on my machines and readjusting my IV, in hopes of a response, but nothing changes.

The last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital was Sherlock promising me he was going to find me. The past few hours have been the most bizarre and insanely frightening hours of my entire life. Within the last twenty four hours, I have found out that there is a third Holmes sibling, Sherlocks younger and wickedly intelligent sister Euros. Euros, was locked up in an asylum called Sherrinford, and, according to Mycroft, is the most dangerous person on the planet. She is a master at manipulation and is smarter than Mycroft and Sherlock combined. I also learned at Euros is the one who told Jim Moriarty to attack us. And to top in all off, Euros was my bloody therapist in disguise. She was the puppet master and the entire human race were her puppets. Euros locked Mycroft, Sherlock, and myself inside Sherrinford and forced the three of us to complete a series of unethical task in order to save a little girl on a plane. She emotionally tortured Sherlock and drove him to his breaking point, just for fun. Then she chained me to the bottom of the well she killed Sherlock's childhood best friend in, and left me to die just as Redbeard did. If it wasn't for Sherlocks brilliant mind, I would have drowned. All of that happened in the span of a day. No wonder I'm in the hospital. My mind is shattered by the shear insanity of the situation.

"John!" I suddenly hear a voice yell, snapping me back to reality. My lazy eyes glance towards the door where the voice originated from. I see Sherlock running, full sprint, down the hallway towards my room. His coat is flapping behind him and his black curly mess of hair catches the wind and flys behind his face. A smile comes across my face despite the fact that I can feel myself slipping back into sleep.

"Sir, you can't be back here. He is in critical condition!" The lady nurse states as she leaves my side to address Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't even look at her. The last thing I see before my eyes weigh themselves shut, is Sherlock's desperate, sleep deprived face as the nurse closes him out of my room.

AN- Hello readers! I really hope you like my attempt at writing a fanfic. I wanted to post a fic of Sherlock because I don't like how they ended season 4, no disrespect to the writers. I know this chapter is short, but it's more like a prolog! More to come! Hope you enjoy this story, leave comments below and give me feed back please!Sincerely,ItsMeTay!


	2. Chapter 2

**POV: Sherlock**

Nearly every part of my body has sunk into the stiff sofa in the hospital waiting room. I haven't moved from this one spot in the last three hours. Well, three hours seventeen minutes and four seconds, but who's counting? Coffee is the only substance keeping my brain and body functioning at a "normal" rate. Empty coffee cups are scattered throughout the waiting room, clearly indicating that I'm not the only person trying to stay awake. I can not fall asleep. What if he wakes up, and I'm not there? I almost missed it the last time.

 _John's nurses enter his room every thirty to thirty five minutes like clock work. They always carry his medicine and a stack of papers, most likely to record his vitals on. About three hours ago, John's female nurse, Amy, barrels past me and into John room. Of course, I became intrigued. The only reason she would visit his room at this time, breaking her pattern, would be for an emergency. Within minutes of Amy passing me, I am up and through the metal doors that lead to the emergency rooms. John's room is the third on the left ( I have memorized exactly how many steps until I reach his door) , and I make my way to his room as quickly as I can. A security guard is alerted of my presence and stops me a few meters before I'm through johns door. He is dressed in a normal security uniform. He looks almost professional, except that the collar of his shirt is slightly lifted up on one side while the other is smoothed down. There is a light pink smudge behind his ear, most likely lip stick. The shoes he is wearing are not tightly tied, like they should be. His shirt isn't tucked into his shirt because he is missing the belt to his uniform which is a required element of dress code in common security guards._

 _"Mr. Holmes, we have told you several times that you are not allowed to see him in this condition. It's for the best," the officer says quite smugly. I don't budge. Looking over his shoulder, I see two more nurses rush into John's room. I have to see him. Moments later, a younger doctor with light pink lips, walks by the two of us and shares a quick greeting before rushing off. A wicked grin cover my face._

 _"Unless you want me to tell the chief that you are sleeping around with the new doctor, his daughter, I suggest that you move out of my way," I state firmly._

 _The officer just gives me a smirk and adds, "like anyone will believe you in the state that you are in." He did have a fair point. The always dark bags under my eyes have become more prominent and deep. Grease sits in my hair waiting to be washed away. I haven't changed my clothes in the two days that I've been at the hospital. Any person with common sense, even Anderson, could deduce that I haven't slept more than an hour these past days. The only thing keeping me going is the constant updates I get from John's nurses. But today, this officer picked the wrong man to mess with. Without my blogger to hold me back from my rude remarks and cold personality, I begin my procedure._

 _"If it is proof you are looking for then no one needs to look any further than your clothing. You are clearly dressed for work in your uniform which is to be worn with pride and honor, which explains why you iron your shirt the night before. You left the iron on too long and burned the bottom left corner of your shirt. The fact that you also have left you shirt untucked and have a missing belt, indicated a that you were in a hurry to get back to work and forgot those major details. That also tells me that what ever you were doing before hand must have been pretty engaging if it took your mind off of your work requirements. Judging by the fact that your shoes were slipped on and not tied back tightly, suggests that you were already late for your shift. But what caused you to be late? Traffic? Wife? Children? Lover? Behind your right ear is a small pink smudge of lipstick. One would assume that it was your wife, but I never assume. The younger woman who walked by a few minutes ago had the exact same shade upon her lips, blushing rouge, if I recall correctly. I noticed that her last name on her name tag was Freeman, the same last name as the main office in charge at this hospital. Your shirt collar is turned up on the left side which leads me to guess that someone had pulled themselves closer to you using your collar. But they would have only used their left hand, their dominate hand. That young doctor was writing notes with her left hand. Your wife is right handed because the picture you keep in your wallet shows your wife holding a watering can with her right. The proof is right there in the open officer, it would be ashamed if the Mrs found out about your love affair. Now, I will repeat myself, I suggest you move out of my way," I challenge as I stare at the officer._

 _"The things they say about you are true," the officer mumbles as he moves slowly out of my path, "you are a psychopath!"_

 _"No," I turn around to address him directly, "I'm a high functioning sociopath." My smirk begins to fade when I glance at my watch. Two minutes have passed since the nurse ran into John's room. I can't miss seeing him. I need to know that he is okay, that he will make it. Because if he doesn't, I will never forgive myself. I should have remembered Euros. Protected John, not pushed him away. We pushed each other away, and I can't stand the space between us. We are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson! The dynamite duo! This won't be our final problem. It can't be._

 _I rush into the door way of John's room only to be pushed back out by the two male nurses leaving the room. The last thing I see before they shut the door again is John's eyes looking into mine. It was only for a split second, but it changed everything. He is conscious, alive. I watched his eyes flutter shut as I am quickly ushered back into the waiting room by the male nurses. I could have swore I saw a slight smile spread across his slim face before I left. Slumping back into my Sherlock sized dent I've made into the sofa, I relax a bit. He is okay. For now, he is fine._

That was three hours ago. Three hours since my last update. These nurses have put me in the dark for three hours. How dare they! He is my friends and I lov...

My thoughts are rudely interrupted as Amy, John's nurse approaches me. Her mood seemed more relaxed then the last time I saw her. I can see that she is about as exhausted as I am which shows me that I can trust her. If her sleeping schedule is the same as mine, then she must have been spending all this time taking care of John. For that I am thankful. Her honey yellow hair is pulled into a low ponytail and her hazel eyes search until they find mine.

"Mr. Holmes," she addresses me as I practically jump off the sofa. "John is stable. He has been making an incredibly quick recover sir." With those few words, my whole mood changed. My John is still fighting. "He is awake right now and in well enough condition to have visitors."

I grabbed Amy by the shoulders and pulled her against my chest. She helped saved his life. She helped bring he back to me. I mumble a thank you as she pulls away to go take care of her other patients. Before she rounds the corner out of view, she calls back to me.

"You should be very proud of him Mr. Holmes. You know, most people who have been in similar conditions as him don't make it. He is a solider, and he fought pretty hard to get back to you."

She turns the corner as I make my way to John's room.


	3. Chapter 3

POV: Sherlock

There was only one thought going through my mind as I placed my slender hand on the knob to John's hospital room. _He is okay._ My blogger has survived a bloody gun shot. He is too stubborn to leave me, I thought as a grin spread to my face. I let that grin linger as I slowly opened the door to John's room.

The windows were all open, by request I assumed, and John was quietly staring at something on the pavement below. Light illuminated his face in a way that made he appear less rough. A rugged soldier was not in this room, but a gentle blogger took his place. Two sides of the same man. John had never been a black or white kind of person. Not to me. He always had been a blur of gray to me, becoming someone who I could never predict. Never becoming dull or ordinary in any way. John has proven time and again that he will find new ways to impress me. Take now, for example. He is sitting up in his bed recovering from a gunshot wound, caused by my apparent sister, and yet he still has that brilliant, radiant grin plastered on his face. It baffles me that he can smile in a time that has filled me with such darkness. Not knowing if John would wake up, or survive the operating table, has been the worst and most devastating moments of my life. In this moment, I realised this is how John must have felt for two whole years. Empty and broken.

"Sherlock?" A weak question hits my ears, and I am snapped out of thought. My John is staring at me with his enigmatic eyes and that foolish grin upon his face. My grin matches his as we lock eyes. Suddenly, I realise the space between us and close the door to John's room, enclosing us in the room alone. In two strides, I find myself in the metal chair next to John's bed. My eyes naturally scan his body, checking for any unseen injuries, of course. Doctors can be very careless at times.

"Sherlock, I'm alright." John say simply, seeing my concern. "The doctors did a fine job on me." His smile is still stuck on his face. My hands comb through my mess of black curls as an awkward silence passes between us. For just a moment, I let my mind wander. I rarely allow myself the luxury of using my mind palace for anything other than work, but I made an exception. John is close enough to touch. I can feel the heat of his body devouring my skin. If I moved my hand off the railing of John's bed… Want is a dangerous thing, I remind myself.

A cough escapes John's throat, clearly trying to get my attention yet again. The look on his face isn't annoyance, but familiarity. Like he has done this a thousand times before to obtain my attention. "So, a secret sister? And I thought the Holmes family couldn't be more bloody abnormal," laughed John.

Besides everything, I laughed a genuine laugh. John never fails to do this to me. "So it appears," I reply through my laughter. With everything that has been going on with John, I hadn't had the time to asses the elephant in the room. I have a sister. A sister that I never knew. Mycroft has attempted to contact my mobile multiple times in the last three hours, but of course I have ignored them. More pressing matters need my attention. My full attention.

"Why can't your family just have a normal person in it? Why do the three of you have to have brains of a geniuses," John asks half in humor. I noted that his body had moved ever so closer to mine throughout my time here.

"John, Mycroft is hardly a genius," I joke back to him, but we both know I am lying. Mycroft is probably the only person who matches my intelligence equally. But he needn't know that.

John let out a small bark of laughter that shook his entire bed. I reached out a hand to stop the bed from shaking just as John put a hand on the railing to stable himself. Our hands met with a transfer of heat and tension. The air in the room went still in that moment. Out of curiousity, I let my hand stay under his, feeling the comforting roughness of his skin. John made no effort to move away from my touch. He is obviously under medication, I think ignorantly. I know for a fact the exact side effects that go with every medication in this hospital, and John is experiencing none of those. He is sober, so to say. Despite the heat of his body, John's hands are frigged. I make the executive decision to pull my hand away from his. Not out of uncomfortness, but out of need. John was cold, and that was something I could easily fix. My heavy coat slid, effortlessly, off my body and I laid it gently across John's body. The coat nearly covered his entire frame, which I found quite amusing.

"What was that for," John asked in pure confusion, as he burrowed into the warmth of my jacket.

I replied, very matter of factly, "You were cold. I haven't done a damned thing from you since we arrived at the hospital. I've felt quite worthless really, and I found a problem I could solve." John's grin disappeared as he scanned my face, waiting for a punchline that wasn't coming. His cold hands moved out from under my coat to catch mine. A chill crawled down my spine, causing me to shiver. My hands rested in his.

John looked me dead in the eyes and said, "You, Sherlock Holmes, are anything but worthless. You save me every single day. Don't you dare think of yourself as worthless." My shocked expression must have been too noticeable because John's face softened. I never knew that John thought that highly of me. Since our first day at 221B, I had tried to come across as a cruel, distant, robotic, bastard who didn't need anyone to share his pain with. I wanted John to think that I was too prideful and smart to need anyone. Little does he know that he saves me every day too. He saves me from myself.

"I'm sorry." I say to John, and I feel our hands come closer together. John squeezes my hand a little longer then loosens his grip, not wanting to let go. I can see all the signs I have been searching for. Signs I have wanted to see since I met Dr. John Watson at the morgue. Dilated pupils, quickened breath, physical contact, inching closer. All the signs are here. But I still don't trust myself. I could be making all of this up. Imagining the callused hands of a soldiers holding my slim hands. His fingers tracing patterns on my palm. I, returning the gesture by drawing the same patterns on his bare skin. I have made all of this up in my mind, multiple times. This will only get my hopes up again to be let down. He is John Hamish Watson and I am Sherlock Holmes. We make the world's great detective team. Platonic and nothing more, I must remind myself. Watson and Holmes, friends and partners.

"I know you can see it," John states, abruptly. I can feel his pulse begin to quicken as he prepares to speak. "You're bloody Sherlock Holmes. You notice everything. You must have noticed how I…." John's words are cut off my the opening of a door. Quickly, John pulls his hands away from mine, probably out of embarrassment. Standing in the doorway of the hospital room is Mycroft, looking particularly round if I might say. He has on the same business suit he always wears. His posture yells power. Inside, I am filled with rage and longing, but outside I meet my brothers questioning glare.

"Hello brother mine," He looks between me and John before continuing, "You weren't answering your phone." The look I gave my brother was pure ice. My brother seems to always have impeccable timing.


	4. Chapter 4

John's POV: Chapter Four

Sometimes I really looth Mycroft Holmes. His timing is impeccable yet annoying. To my surprise, Sherlock didn't wear his usual look of annoyance when Mycroft interrupted our conversation, but wore a more furious expression. The normal stare down of intelligence was happening before me, as my mind raced to catch up with them. What had almost told Sherlock. That could have ruined everything. Plus, he must already know. As I said, he knows everything. He must have been ignoring it to save me from embarrassment. Because it is completely embarrassing to be totally in love with someone who doesn't reciprocate the same feelings. Embarrassing and heartbreaking.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft broke off the staring match to address me directly, "You seem to be recovering well."

Quickly, Sherlock answered, "He is." The tone sent through those word resembled ice. Mycroft walked into the room, closing the door behind him. I couldn't help but think how much he resembled sherlock in this moment. Mycroft never took his eyes off of Sherlock, attempting to hide the care he feels for his brother. The two of them pretend they aren't close, but it is quite the opposite.

"Sherlock," Mycroft address his brother, "I need your help." With that, the room grew still. Not once in my years with the Holmes brother have I heard Mycroft admit to needing Sherlock's help. Mycroft was too prideful. Sherlock met his brother's gaze again with a worried look. I could tell that he knew that what Mycroft needed help with must be of the utmost importance. Otherwise, Mycroft wouldn't ask.

"That's surprising coming from you, Mycroft. What is it this time? Another bomb in London? A cereal killer? Or maybe it is our sister?" Sherlock questioned. His last question seemed more like an attack than anything else.

"Sister?" Mycroft asked with genuine confusion. At that, my brow sank in thought. If Mycroft didn't know about Euros, then who did? Sherlock looked at me and seemed to be thinking the same.

"Don't try that with me Mycroft. I know about Euros." I could tell that Sherlock was fishing for answers.

"Euros? My god, you're that naive. He's got you believing in a white lie, Sherlock. I thought you better than this. Even if Euros was your sister, how would you not remember her, brother. Really that is quite stupid really," Mycroft practically laughed at the two of us. Sherlock's confusion was gone, having been replaced with anger. If there is one thing Sherlock hate, it's being called stupid. Especially if the one to call him so is Mycroft. After a few silent moments, Mycroft took his chance to speak again. "The woman who shot John was not our sister Sherlock. But she is Jim Moriarty's sister."

"Moriarty," my voice croaked out. He's dead. Sherlock had confirmed that over and over again. Sherlock's face twisted when Mycroft mentioned Moriarty's name, as did my own face. It has been years since Sherlock's faked death, but everytime I hear the name Jim Moriarty, I am brought back to that moment. That horrible, heart wrenching moment. The moment that ruined me. The moment I knew that I was totally in love with Sherlock Holmes. I had to stand at the bottom of the building, like an idiot, and watch the man I love fall, at least 10 floors, to his death. I was the one to check his pulse and declare him dead. I was the one who cried over his bloodied body on the pavement. I was the one who had to live a miserable life for two years. Even though I have forgiven Sherlock for letting me feel that pain, I will never, never forgive Moriarty. Thank god that bastard is dead and gone.

"Yes, John, Jim Moriarty sent his sister to do his dirty work. We believe he was trying to kill you to get to Sherlock. When you leave the hospital, we can show you the video he sent to my address. We have been trying to narrow down Jim's location, but we haven't been successful as of late," Mycroft spoke in a way that made everything he was saying seem normal.

Sherlock stood up and approached his older brother. "You are telling us that, Jim Moriarty is alive. And you and the damned government have known. And not told us," The stone expression Sherlock bared seemed to cause Mycroft uncomfortment. Mycroft explained to Sherlock and myself that they have been aware of Moriarty's return for about a year now. They have no idea how he survived, or what he plans to do now. Half way through Mycroft's explanation Sherlock broke.

"Get out," Sherlock simple spoke. No emotion in his voice. Mycroft shuddered at the tone his brother spoke with. He tried to reason with his younger brother, but Sherlock walked past him and opened the door. "Leave, now." Mycroft took his defeat quietly. I could have swore the look on Mycroft's face was almost sympathy.

Sherlock stayed at the door for five minutes, saying and doing nothing. He must been in his mind palace, trying to figure out how Moriarty did it. I left him to his work as usual. The sky outside turned gloomy as the rain began to fall. My own mind was racing with thoughts of moriarty, but most of Sherlock. If this comes to the same outcome as before, I don't know if I could survive another two years without my detective.

"John?" I looked back to see Sherlock standing at my side. His face looked aged with worry. I noticed his hand resting on the railing, and I took all of my willpower to not lay my own on top of his.

"What are we going to do Sherlock," I asked Sherlock. Our eyes locked as our minds raced with thought. I couldn't help, but wonder how it would feel to be held by him. To feel comforted in his arms.

"Right now, you are going to rest. Then tomorrow when we get to leave this horrid hospital, we will figure something out." He replied, relaxing his worried expression. I hadn't noticed how tired I was until I let my head fall back against the bed. I was asleep almost instantly.

Sherlock must have thought I was sleeping as well because before he sat down in the chair next to mine, he placed a ghost of a kiss against my forehead.


End file.
